Amnesia
by CrankWindPencil
Summary: Jakes doesn't care what happens to Morse. Really. He doesn't. Not even a little. Takes place after 'Fugue'. Rated for some language, Morse's drinking, and injury.


**To readers that follow my other stuff: I'll get to that. Soon. But this fandom is great and I cannot resist writing for it. Sorry. Also, this story contains spoilers for the episode 'Fugue', in case you missed that in the summary. Moving on, go forth and enjoy the story! Disclaimer- I don't even want to own the show, honestly. I just want to give Morse and Jakes lots of hugs.**

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Fred had told him to go home and put on his best record.

Funny thing, that, Endeavour thought, downing his third glass of scotch in absolute silence.

Then again, he's never been very good at following orders.

He sniffs and reaches for the bottle once again, tipping its contents into his glass. There's a half a moment of hesitation before he grips the glass and brings it to his lips, downing it swiftly. It burns his throat going down, and though thoughts are increasingly difficult to form, he doesn't think that scotch is supposed to do that. Whisky, isn't it? He shrugs and finds the bottle once more.

He's just drunk enough that the sharp edges of reality are starting to dull, but still coherent enough that he can feel the throbbing pain in his side, can remember the all consuming fear when he'd seen Fred on th e rooftop with that madman, can still count how many drinks he's had.

Endeavour resolves to fix that and pours himself another glass.

And another.

And another.

And then once more.

An hour and a half later, he's halfway through what had been a full bottle of scotch.

He's leaned back in his chair, his unfocused gaze on the green bottle. He reaches for it, misses, and tries again. His hand closes around it and he bring it back, forgoing the glass this time around. Lips have just met the bottle neck when-

_Knock, knock, knock_

Knuckles rap on his door, sounding throughout the flat. Endeavour blinks in surprise.

_Knock, knock-_

"Comin'!" He calls to whoever it is at the door, setting the bottle on his table. Even his one word had been considerably slurred and Endeavour thinks that perhaps he's in no condition to be talking to anyone.

Nonetheless, he stands from his chair, using the table as support for a moment while he tries to get his bearings. A second later, he starts across the room. He stumbles halfway to the door and yanks it open.

"Who the bloody-" Endeavour breaks off, disbelieving of who it is at the door. Of all the people, and of all the times, of _course_ it would be this.

"Morse." Says Jakes, arching an eyebrow, a perpetual cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

"I've got your shirt, if that's what you want." Endeavour replies.

It's a lie.

He's no idea where he put the damn thing.

Jakes glances the other man up and down.

"Mmm, yes. I see that," He notes mildly, motioning to Morse. "You're wearing it. Quite a lot of blood you've managed to get on it, too."

Endeavour looks down at his torso.

He is indeed wearing Jakes' shirt.

There is indeed an impressive amount of blood blossoming from his side.

He looks to Jakes'.

"...Damn..." He mutters, not entirely sure whom to.

Jakes squints slightly.

"...You're drunk, aren't you?" He questions, taking in Morse's incoherent words, the way the constable is leaning on his door frame.

"What d'you care?" Endeavour challenges, immediately defensive. "You'll have your damn shirt soon enough. Didn't need t' come all the bloody way down here to bother me f'r it."

A sigh passes through Jakes' lips.

"I didn't come by for my shirt." He explains patiently. A look of confusion crosses Endeavour's features.

"What for, then?"

"I came by to check on you, you sod."

Beat.

"Thursday's busy?"

"I-...no. Jesus, Morse, I don't need Thursday to tell me stop by to check on you. I'm not his dog."

Endeavour's eyebrows draw together.

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Quite." Jakes replies without hesitation.

Both men are quiet for a time.

Jakes just wants to make sure that Morse isn't going to drop dead from something stupid and Morse-like, like an infection, or a slight cold, or tripping on something and cracking his thick head open. It's not that he _cares_ what happens to Morse or anything; he would just like to avoid the wrath of Thursday that would surely follow the death of his bagman. Really. As long as Morse keeps breathing, he doesn't care what happens to the constable. Not even a little.

"Well," Starts Endeavour with a slight sniff. "'m fine."

Jakes gives a skeptical snort.

"What?!" Morse demands harshly.

Jakes shakes his head slightly, then motions vaguely to the bloodstain on Morse's shirt.

"How's that side treating you?" He inquires.

"'Bout as well as 't looks." Morse mutters.

"Right then," Jakes begins. "You'd best get that cleaned up." He says, stepping into Endeavour's flat.

"Wha' d'you mean?" The smaller man asks, clearly alarmed. Jakes glances around the room, frowning at a mostly empty bottle of scotch before answering.

"What I mean is that if you keel over from infection, Thursday'll have me on your duties. And we can't have that, now can we?" He asks, rummaging through Morse's desk area. He pulls a thick roll of cloth from one of the desk's drawers.

"The hell have you got this in here for?" Questions Jakes, brandishing the roll. It's convenient, no doubt, but he can't help but question its peculiar placement. Morse gives a slight shrug, continuing to lean on the wall by the still open door.

"Dunno."

Jakes rolls his eyes.

"Of course you don't." He mutters under his breath. Inhaling sharply, he motions to the chair by the wooden table that is currently occupied by various spirits. "Sit yourself down, then."

Morse's expression is vaguely suspicious. Still, he pushes off the wall and walks across the room to where Jakes is.

He trips three times and falls to the floor once, shaky as he gets up. Jakes swears under his breath and has to resist the urge to pick up the constable off the ground and sit him down in the chaor himself.

Eventually Morse does manage to reach Jakes and collapses into his seat.

"Christ, how much have you had?" Jakes questions, trepident.

"Not sure." Is the response.

The sergeant is quiet for a moment.

"Shirt off." He commands.

Morse obeys without complaint. Jakes thinks that probably Morse would do anything at this point without too much resistance.

Even from behind, Jakes can tell that Morse is struggling with the shirt's buttons. He circles around and lifts the other man's hands from the shirt, undoing the buttons himself. Morse glares at him indignantly but Jakes brushes it off. Not as though Morse could have done it himself, anyways.

The constable shrugs the shirt off and drops it to the floor.

"That _is _my shirt, Morse." Jakes reminds him, just a hint of irritation tainting his voice as he eyes the carelessly discarded top.

"'t's got _my_ blood on it." Endeavour retorts.

Jakes doesn't reply to that. This is mostly because he's quite preoccupied staring at the rather unsettling wound interrupting Morse's otherwise smooth skin.

"DeBryn let go with this?" He questions, rummaging around for a bottle of alcohol, very pointedly ignoring the prickle of discomfort the gash on Morse is causing him.

Lacerations on unassociated corpses is one thing. Bloody and inflamed knife work on a very much alive colleague is another entirely, Jakes finds.

"Made him." Says Morse.

A scoff escapes Jakes.

"She would've died oth'rwise." Morse offers as explanation.

"Doesn't mean you're not daft." Jakes counter as he soaks a rag with a newly found bottle of rubbing alcohol. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to where things are placed in Morse's flat.

Jakes wonders how often this is the case.

The now saturated rag is pressed to Morse's side and a hiss escapes his lips.

"Don't run around getting stabbed next time, then." Jakes recommends, voice light as he can manage, dabbing at the wound again.

Endeavour says nothing.

Jakes finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the cloth roll, starting in on wrapping it around the other man's stomach. He doesn't miss how the younger man flinches at even the lightest contact from his delicate fingers.

Minutes later there is a neat white cloth bandage covering the unsightly cut.

"There you are." Says Jakes, satisfied. Endeavour glances down to his torso, then up to the taller man.

"Th'nks." He mumbles.

Jakes hesitates, then put the cap on Morse's bottle of liquor and pushes across the table, away from Morse.

"Come on," The sergeant says, voice brisk. Endeavour glances to Jakes, confused.

"To bed you go." Jakes clarifies.

"Oh."

"Yes," Says Jakes with a long suffering sigh. _"Oh. _Now get up."

Endeavour does so and proceeds to collapse again. Jakes has been half expecting this and is just able to catch the smaller man, lifting him up from underneath his arms. He drapes one of Morse's arms over his shoulders and leads him to the bed, thankfully not far away, leaned on heavily by Morse the whole way. Jakes more or less deposits the other man atop the mattress and pulls several blankets over him, despite muttered protests.

"I don't expect to see you at work tomorrow." Mentions Jakes.

"You said Thursday'll p't you 'n my duties." Endeavour argues meekly, eyes sliding shut.

"That's fine for a day or two." Jakes dismisses. "I'll tell Thursday you won't be in tomorrow."

"But-"

_"Rest."_

When Morse doesn't reply, Jakes glances over his shoulder.

The constable's eyes are closed, expression relaxed, breathing even. He's asleep, Jakes realizes with a start. Shaking his head some -normal people don't just nod off halfway through conversations- he walks across the room as quietly as he can.

He opens the door to Morse's flat and steps out, stealing one last glance at the unconscious detective.

It's easy to forget that Morse is just a man, Jakes thinks as he walks down the soggy Oxford street.

Beneath all of his brilliance and bravado and arrogance, Morse was just a boy; lonely and hurting and unwilling to ask for help.

Jakes thinks that perhaps the way he treats Morse doesn't at all help with that.

He tells himself that he doesn't care. That he doesn't give a damn how Morse copes with things, doesn't mind if he refuses to take any sort of care of himself, doesn't care if the constable drinks himself into oblivion.

Peter knows it's a lie.

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**I can't even tell if I'm shipping them in this fic. It's really very confusing. Anywho, if you would be so kind as to leave a review, tell me how I did, what I can do better, maybe tell me something you'd like to see me write, it would make my day. Even if you don't leave a review, thanks for reading, have a fantastic day, and DFTBA!**


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